


And So First Burns Himself

by vaarsuvius



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8467708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaarsuvius/pseuds/vaarsuvius
Summary: Alternate universe for MTMTE/ex-RID s2. Megatron goes to trial and comes out a public servant--not on the Lost Light, but on Cybertron itself, under the thumb of one familiar Emperor Perpetua. Starscream is gleeful. Megatron isn't intimidated. Cybertron is caught in the middle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the work is based on a Buddhist saying that goes something like this: "By [holding on to anger] you are like a man who wants to hit another and picks up a burning ember in his hand, and so first burns himself." A bit of a spoiler, then--the theme of this fic is the complexity of forgiveness, healing, and moving on. Without going into too much detail, it's subject that's very close to me, as well as, I can imagine, plenty of other survivors of abuse. Anyway, this fic has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for almost a year, so I thought I'd put it out there into the public sphere to get motivated to finish it. Please enjoy!

“What, you’re giving him to  _ me? _ ”

Starscream’s disbelief is tangible as he looks back and forth between Optimus Prime and Megatron, fresh off the stand. “You expect me to be his babysitter?”

“No,” Optimus says, voice and optics steely. “I expect you to do what duty requires of you as the elected leader of Cybertron. Including keeping stock of political prisoners, especially those whose  _ pity  _ you so advocated for.”

Starscream’s tanks churn, but he keeps his mouth shut. He knows when he’s been cornered and confines his distaste to an aggressive flick of the wings, its meaning clear enough for even a grounder like the Prime— _ former  _ Prime—to catch. This arrangement is far from what he had in mind, but the jury was clear. Death was too easy an out for Megatron, they decided. Some argued the nebulous qualities of justice, that he  _ deserved  _ death, but the facts were impossible to ignore. You could not end a reign of death with yet another. You end it with life. Not mercy, but a true justice to a dwindling, finite race with hardly enough sparks around to populate the planet, let alone rebuild it. The implication was clear:  _ fix what you broke. Then you can die. _

It dawns on Starscream, belatedly, that he is included in that reprimand, only as Optimus transfers the data key for Megatron’s stasis cuffs to him. He wants to backhand Optimus onto the floor, then, and prides himself on his restraint. Oh, he must think he’s so clever, punishing the two of them like this, two former Decepticons with one legal writ. As if Optimus wasn’t complicit in the breaking of their home planet. He acts so high and mighty, Starscream wants to rip out his—

“We still have the technology for the I/D chips,” Optimus says, interrupting Starscream’s train of thought.

“You—what?”

“The deterrence chips,” Optimus repeats slowly, as if speaking to a lesser creature.  _ Oh, he’ll get his, he will.  _ “I’m sure you’re familiar with them, having had one yourself.”

“If you know that,” Starscream spits, losing composure despite his best efforts, “you’ll know that there’s no place for leashing Cybertronians like animals here. Not even him.” He jerks his head emphatically at where Megatron stands, seemingly unaffected by the conversation.

“Suit yourself,” Optimus says, infuriatingly calm. “Know that whatever actions he takes are your responsibility. I hope you keep him under control.”

_ He thinks he’s better than me _ , Starscream fumes,  _ thinks because he’s not getting emotional he’s right, I’ll show him, I’ll show Megatron too, you think I’m a joke, you—you— _ “I’m fully aware of the potential repercussions involved, Optimus,” he forces out. “You have no need to worry about how I run  _ my  _ planet.”

“Not yours,” Optimus retorts. “The planet belongs to all Cybertronians. Do not mistake what your position entails, Starscream. Leadership is a responsibility.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Starscream snaps. He’s heard this all before, if not from Optimus then from someone else. If not from someone else, then from the echoes of Metalhawk’s voice when all else is quiet. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“You have yet to convince me,” Optimus says with a note of finality as he hands Megatron’s datapad file over. Starscream nearly breaks it in half with the force of his grip. He holds it like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from full-body tackling Optimus to the ground the moment he turns his back. Only when the mech has receded to a shadow and passed beyond the doors does Starscream’s grip loosen a little.

“Self-righteous spawn of a glitch,” he hisses, running his fingers absently over the dents in the edges of the datapad. A soft snort echoes from the corner of the room and he freezes instantly.

“Forgot I was here,” Megatron says, as though reading his thoughts. Some things never change. “I thought you’d have grown out of talking to yourself by now. Gets a mech in trouble.” He looks so casual, exudes an air of charisma and confidence even in stasis cuffs. 

“You,” Starscream says, whirling on his heel, “have no place to talk. You’re the whole reason for this mess. I wouldn’t even have to _be_ politicking with Optimus if it weren’t for your—your _existence_ , honestly.”

“A lot of things wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for my existence.” Megatron’s expression is completely unreadable, and Starscream’s response matches, awestruck in a way that’s neither good nor bad. It just is. “Are we going to leave? These cuffs are starting to chafe.”

“You make me want to leave you in them,” Starscream huffs, motioning for Megatron to follow him down the hall. “Fortunately for you, I’m not the sadist you were. I’m not interested in inflicting pain on you for the sake of it.”

“How noble,” Megatron says dryly. He holds out his hands when Starscream gestures, and the cuffs unlock with a pneumatic hiss, clattering to the floor. When he reaches down to pick them up, Starscream shoos him away.

“Someone will get that,” he says, “Come on. We’ve lost enough time already.”

Megatron doesn’t reply, only bends over to pick up the cuffs. Starscream looks disgusted as he sets them beside a disposal unit and turns back to face him. “It’s my job to clean up my messes, isn’t it?” He doesn’t smile, has the grace not to punctuate it further. Starscream knows him well enough to feel it anyway.

“No, it’s your job to do what I tell you to do,” he says, setting a brisk pace down the hall. Megatron matches him easily, one stride for two of Starscream’s in his larger frame. “I want to make one thing utterly, unmistakably clear. I make the decisions here. Me.” He stops suddenly, concern for time seemingly dropped for the moment. Megatron nearly trips over him but catches himself, looks down his nose at Starscream. The seeker’s wings are hiked up to make as imposing a figure as possible even beneath the towering mech before him. “Who am I?”

“Starscream,” Megatron responds.

“Wrong. Again.”

Megatron has the tact not to sigh, but he’s sure Starscream can feel it from the way his wings twitch in response to the unspoken affront. “ _ Lord  _ Starscream.”

“Better, but not quite. Who am I in relation to you?”

“If there is any possible way I can get this conversation to end faster,” Megatron says, patience thinning, “please, share with me.”

Starscream seems to weigh his options for a moment before letting his wings drop a half-inch. “I am your superior,” he says. “You answer to me. If you screw this up, I take the blame, and if I take the blame, there is nothing in this universe or the next that will save you. So, I reiterate: you do what I say, when I say, how I say, and you? You have no say. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Excellent,” Starscream says, with no hint of gladness, and turns quickly to find the elevator at the end of the hall.

Megatron stands for a moment, observing. By all accounts Starscream should be triumphant, glowing. All accounts but Megatron’s, who’s seen the seeker at the zenith of power, on the cusp of his dreams, and seen him self-destruct. He looks that way now, weighted down and trembling, noticeable just at the tips of his wings, noticeable only to one whose very life depended for five million years on a careful observation of Starscream’s mood.

There’s a word for it, Megatron thinks, and as they reach the elevator and Starscream’s face comes into view once more, he recalls it. He looks scared.


	2. Chapter 2

“Here’s your assignment.” Starscream waves the datapad in front of Megatron’s face until he takes it. “Don’t mess it up.”

Megatron looks over it briefly and turns to see Starscream already at his desk, poring over a datapad of his own. “You’re having me organize and manage reconstruction priorities and labor allocation.”

“Yes, that is what I wrote,” Starscream says without looking up. “What, not good enough for you?”

“The opposite.”

Starscream finally deigns to meet Megatron’s questioning gaze. “What, you thought I’d make you my secretary or something?” he says, optics narrowed. “Please. I know you think I’m petty, but I do actually plan to get work done around here, and humiliating you is at the bottom of my list.” He taps the datapad against the desk once, contemplatively. “Well. Close to the bottom. Don’t think I don’t intend to make good on all the debt you’ve racked up with me over the years,” he says, lower. “Just not now.”

“Debt,” Megatron echoes dubiously, “Do I owe you something I don’t know about?”

Starscream laughs, a thin, reedy sound that echoes off the high walls. “Don’t play dumb, Megatron,” he says, “It doesn’t suit you.” His collected façade fractures like glass, almost imperceptibly, optics frantic and bright. “If I had to tell you all the things you owe me, all the weights unbalancing the scale, we would be here until our sparks burned out.” With that, whatever flickered in his optics a moment ago disappears, leaving the seeker’s faceplates hard and presidential once more. “So,” he says, “Unless you’ve got any  _ relevant  _ questions, I suggest you get to work.”

Megatron simply nods and turns to leave. Starscream doesn’t stop him, which surprises Megatron a bit. He expects some insistence on a “yes, sir,” or some such. But Starscream seems content to let him take care of himself. In truth, he assumed there would be a lot more resistance, a lot more of Starscream holding his long-desired status over Megatron’s deposed head. Instead there’s… a shocking degree of professionalism, if laced with the usual Starscream venom.

The datapad holds more detailed information about the assignment, which Megatron reads more carefully as he passes through the building. He has no prying eyes to worry about—Starscream keeps very private, and the only people with access privileges are the two of them and Rattrap. Megatron suspects that this is also a part of his conditions, a semblance of near-solitary house arrest. Looking at the datapad confirms his suspicions—it’s desk work. He assumes it’s too much to ask to be allowed free roam. Considering public sentiment, he’d probably be shot the minute he stepped outside.

Megatron’s… office, he supposes he should call it, is nice enough. A floor to ceiling window takes up one wall of the room, giving a wide view of the city. Parts of it are still little more than burnt out, twisted wreckage. In lieu of actually traversing it, Megatron must settle for monitoring the rebuilding efforts from within this glass prison. New Iacon, on New Cybertron, ruled by New Starscream. A Starscream with little interest in parading Megatron around like a trophy in his defeat—Megatron almost feels a twinge of disappointment.

_ But surely,  _ he thinks as he looks idly out the window,  _ the old Starscream is in there somewhere.  _ Starscream always was a good liar, after all. Good at putting on a front. Megatron is nothing if not familiar with pushing the seeker’s buttons and tearing that front apart, a favored pass-time and one he has no intention of abandoning now, regardless of their reversed positions. Starscream is still Starscream, even if he’s so far succeeded in fooling everyone else. Megatron can read the tension in the angle of his wings, in the choice of his words, in the pace of his steps. To Megatron’s trained eye, he looks about one step from the edge.

Of course, there’s little point in pushing him off. Megatron is fully aware that he’s only just dodged an execution, and sending the president of Cybertron into a breakdown seems an excellent way to seal his fate. No, pushing Starscream over the edge was never the goal—Megatron makes a point to straddle the thin line between pushing him away and pulling him back, honed to an art form. The weakening energon ration Megatron is on makes the situation slightly more complicated, but brute force was never the only weapon in his arsenal. 

A little while on the throne away from Megatron pales in comparison to several million years of careful conditioning. It will all come rushing back. Megatron knows the strings to pull; he planted them himself. Let the little seeker play king. His place will catch up with him. Until then, Megatron is more than content to get inside the head of the most powerful mech on Cybertron. The idea of manipulating circumstance from the shadows fills him with distaste, but he won’t pass up the opportunity that Optimus and all the others so carelessly dropped in his lap. He understands their reasoning: what better mech to keep a watchful eye on Megatron and keep him in line than Starscream? And yet.

Megatron flexes his servos. The poisoned energon lies thick and heavy in his lines like concrete, makes him sluggish. At least he’s not doing manual labor. Looking to the desk, he sees it’s not made to accommodate a mech of his size. Ah. So there’s the humiliation, then. Spending the day working at a Starscream-sized station. Megatron feels his spark lift, just a little. There’s his second, petty as ever. There’s hope for him yet.

* * *

 

Megatron doesn’t see or hear from Starscream at all for days. If not for the fact that he knows he can’t be left unmonitored, he could very well get the impression he’s been left alone. He could easily slack on his work, get under Starscream’s plating a little, but he wishes to keep his days of intentionally sabotaging work as a petty jab behind him. Turning over a new leaf and all that. He won’t be shown up by having Starscream of all people looking more professional than him.

Still, Megatron’s new life becomes very boring very quickly. He’s used to the frantic pace of wartime and making loaded decisions with lives on the line. This is the world he gave everything to create, he thinks dully. A pity he seems unable to enjoy it in all its quiet mundanity. The peaceful tyranny realized in all but name, and all Megatron can feel is hollow. It’s not that he wants war. He just… itches. Organizing restoration efforts is fulfilling and plays to the management skills he honed in the war, but the stillness is stifling. The silence gets in his head.

When Starscream finally comms him over their private line, it takes everything Megatron has to not sound openly relieved. The seeker’s voice is as grating as ever, like a comforting burr in his side, “ _ Megatron! My office, now! _ ” Starscream cuts the line without a chance for Megatron to respond. He heaves himself out of his ill-sized chair, rolls his joints. He thinks idly about tearing up some of the extraneous furniture in the room to use instead and smiles imagining Starscream’s reaction. Later.

Starscream’s heel taps an impatient rhythm against the side of his desk as Megatron arrives, the seeker’s arms crossed as if he’s been made to wait all day. “Get lost on the way?” he asks snidely.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t put my office on the opposite end of the building,” Megatron says smoothly, “I would have arrived sooner.” The door slides shut behind him. Starscream makes no move to motion him to a chair, so he crosses the room himself. He doesn’t miss the way Starscream flinches, just slightly, when he moves towards him. Old habits die hard.

He comes to a halt just close enough to be uncomfortable, just close enough to be familiar, nostalgic. They always did have their best discussions up close and personal. Starscream doesn’t seem to think so, and moves to sit on the edge of his desk, putting a bit more space between them. “So,” he says.

“I assume you didn’t bring me up here for idle chatter,” Megatron says.

Starscream crosses his legs, looking almost demure. “Of course not,” he retorts. “Listen. If it were up to me, I would be happy to keep you in that little office gathering dust forever.” He sighs wistfully, turning to the window. “And yet, the position of president requires that I forgo my own personal needs and defer instead to the will of the people.”

“Right.” Megatron doesn’t see the point of putting on this little show—they both know it for what it is. There’s no audience but the two of them. “Get on with it.”

“That’s no way to speak to your president,” Starscream says, his theatric, faraway gaze sharpening instantly into a coy little smirk. “You want to try that again?”

_ I  _ want  _ to throw you through that window,  _ Megatron thinks, but says, “Not particularly, no.”

Starscream shrugs, looking unbothered. “Fine by me. See how far that attitude gets you with those who are less…  _ forgiving  _ than I.” He picks up a datapad and idly scrolls through its contents. “Now, I’ll preface this by saying that I’m perfectly satisfied with your work and contributions to the rebuilding effort. However, as I’m sure you’re aware, you and your trial are rather high profile.” His faceplates twitch in a look of distaste. “The long and short of it is that the people want to see proof, they want to see you out and working, rather than locked away where they assume you’re living the high life. I for one appreciate the value of symbolic gestures enough to acquiesce to their request.”

He thrusts the datapad into Megatron’s hands to peruse. “Ah,” he says, with a glance at the missive, “So when they asked for rebuilding, they meant—“

“Quite literally, yes,” Starscream says, hopping off the desk. “So. There’s your new assignment. Enjoy the fresh air.” He circles over to the other side of his desk and starts rummaging through one of the drawers. When he looks up, Megatron hasn’t moved. “In case the nuance was lost, that was a dismissal,” he says. His voice grates on Megatron’s audials, hitting that particular nasal tone that makes his servos itch.

“No, I got that,” Megatron says.

“Then get out there and dance for the public like a good bot.”

“You’re not worried I’m going to do something.”

The seeker grins wryly. “Uh, no,” he says. “I’m in a position you should find very familiar, that is, one in which those beneath me have very little to gain from sabotaging me, and everything to lose.” His optics gleam with unspoken threat. “I’m sure you can understand that, can’t you?”

It’s a bait, very clearly, and on any other day, under any other circumstance, Megatron would gladly take it. But—and it pains him to admit this even silently—Starscream is right. The seeker learned from the best, after all. So Megatron merely narrows his optics and leaves Starscream with a smug expression that doesn’t reach his optics, still fervent and bright.

The construction site isn’t far from the building, but it’s far enough that Megatron takes a heavy battering of jeers and stares. He’s prepared for it. It’s a relief, almost. Compared to the strange, silent cold war with Starscream, this is something he can deal with. When a thrown rock strikes his back, he feels almost at home.

He unsubspaces the datapad to double-check the location of the building site. The coordinates are listed alongside the times he should leave and come back. Simple, familiar. He has nothing against manual labor, only the associated class disparities that came with the Functionist rule. A rule that, ostensibly, has ended forever. Megatron has yet to believe it. The old order is in ashes, but there is no guarantee that what will rise from it will be any better. The atmosphere on this new Cybertron feels like an overfull cup, uneasy and ready to spill at the slightest touch. There cannot be a war again. But no one here knows anything else.

It’s dark by the time he returns to the presidential building, yet still light enough to see the graffiti, newly scrawled across the door:  _ Decepticon High Command. _


	3. Chapter 3

“You know you actually have a responsibility here,” Windblade snaps at the turned back of Cybertron's president. A disinterested flick of the wings is all she gets in response. “You do know what your job is, right? It’s leader. Like, actually leading people, being responsible. I don’t know what you think leadership is, if it’s some kind of daily parade in your honor or—“

Starscream’s sudden movement makes her jump, not fast enough to keep from being bracketed against the back wall by the larger aerial’s hands. He hisses into Windblade’s audial, doesn’t let her see his face but lets her feel the proximity of his shoulder-mounted weapons. “Don’t. Speak. To me. Of  _ leadership _ .”

“I’m only saying—“ Windblade starts, but Starscream interrupts her once more with force enough to make her audials ring.

“And what,” he spits, “pray tell, gives you the impression I have the slightest interest in whatever, doubtless insipid, advice you want to give me?  _ What _ could I have possibly done to lead you to this conclusion?” He pulls away, gives Windblade space to breathe, looks her over critically. “I really, sincerely want to know, so I can make sure I never do it again.”

“I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’re our democratically elected leader?” Starscream always liked being called leader, and Windblade relied on that to get her point across many times in the past. “I’m sure your reign will last a  _ long  _ time if you completely refuse to listen to your subjects.”

A grin cuts across Starscream’s faceplates. “Subjects. I like that.”

Windblade suppresses the urge to roll her optics. Of course he does. “Yeah, well, your  _ subjects _ are noticing that you only told your prisoner half of the story.”

“I told him what he needed to know,” the seeker says, stepping lightly back toward his desk, back turned to Windblade once more. “The… farther-reaching political implications aren’t something he needs to concern himself with. He’s tried his hand at politics and failed. It’s my turn now.”

“Then do what you’re supposed to do,” Windblade says, trying hard to keep her voice under control. “You gave Megatron his job. You need to do yours.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” Starscream’s optics remain fixed on a point outside the window.

“Fine,” Windblade says. There’s little point in trying to extract any kind of confession from Starscream. “I’ll spell it out for you: the issue wasn’t that Megatron was out of the public view. It was that  _ you _ are, or more to the point, that it doesn’t look like you’re supervising him at all.”

Starscream turns on his heel then, looking theatrically affronted. “It isn’t  _ my  _ fault that the common people don’t understand the finer nuances of the political process. I assure you and all Cybertronians that the situation is well in hand, and I—“

Windblade interrupts him now, “Then make them understand. Because right now it looks like either you just don’t care, or…”

“Or what.” Starscream’s wings hike up a few degrees.

“Or that you trust Megatron.”

The president’s optics go wide, his faceplates shifting through a hundred emotions, all unreadable, in less than a nanoklik. “I—“ he says, “I don’t—are you—“

Windblade would be amused were the situation not so dire. Starscream, at a loss for words. “Well, you do let him out on his own, unsupervised,” she says airily. “What are we poor commoners to assume?”

“That no one is stupid enough to trust Megatron,” Starscream says through gritted dentae, “Least of all me.” He turns back towards the window, taking a moment to compose himself. At length, he speaks again. “Fine. Even if I have far more important matters to attend to… I understand the importance of putting on a show for the public. I will take care of it.”

“So you’re going to—“ Windblade starts.

“I said,  _ I will take care of it _ ,” Starscream says icily. “Dismissed.”

Even Windblade knows not to push any harder. She hopes she’s at least gotten something done. Maybe Starscream doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care, but the city is stirring, precarious and unsettled. This relative peace won’t last, certainly not with the way things are going. Windblade groans, dipping her wings, and prays her efforts will be enough.

In his quarters, Starscream stares at his own reflection over the city and makes a call.


	4. Chapter 4

The air at the construction site feels charged. Starscream rolls his joints, trying to work out an itch that seems to lie deep within his wiring. Megatron gives him a look, which Starscream returns with one of his own.

“Everyone’s looking at you, Starscream,” Megatron says, coolly. “Isn’t this what you always wanted?”

“Everyone’s looking at _you_ ,” Starscream hisses back. “And don’t lean in to talk to me like that. It looks conspiratorial.” He throws an appeasing look at the crowd that’s gathered to watch the former Decepticon commanders shovel piles of dirt out of a pit of rubble.

“You don’t look so happy about this,” Megatron remarks, observing Starscream’s face transform instantly from crowd-pleasing smile to irritated pout the moment he’s turned away.

“Oh, what could possibly have given you that idea?” Starscream sneers, giving the dirt a particularly aggressive shove that sends a shower of dust flying into the air. “I did not get elected Supreme Leader of Cybertron to go right back to working in a slag pit.”

“You never worked in a slag pit,” Megatron corrects.

“I mean it figuratively, Megatron,” Starscream says, “Though I understand how these linguistic subtleties may be lost on you. You’re right, I never worked in a slag pit, my old job as cannon fodder was _much_ better.” A cold constructed flier built entirely for speed had little hope of lasting long, even in the years of relative peace before the Decepticons rose up against the Senate and everything fell apart. “I put those days behind me.”

"That's good," Megatron remarks. "You wouldn't last a nanoklik working down there." He looks meaningfully at Starscream's meager progress on their task. The seeker shovels like he's afraid he'll scratch his plating.

"I lasted long enough working under _you_ ," Starscream spits. "Besides. This isn't actual work. This is PR--public relations."

"I know what PR means," Megatron says, and when Starscream turns to hurl another retort at him, he cuts him off. “No chit-chat, right? Looks conspiratorial. Dance for the public like a good bot.” Megatron turns back to his work, smirking, and Starscream resists the urge to bludgeon him right there.

\--

Starscream wonders if he’ll ever get all the dust out of his plating. He lets the warm solvent pour down his wings and leans his head against the wall of his private washracks. "This isn't what I became president for," he mutters sullenly.

"Oh, but it is."

 _Oh, Primus. Not now_. Starscream keeps his eyes steadfastly shut. "We are absolutely not doing this right now. I'm exhausted. Frag off."

"All the more reason for it to be now, don't you think?" Metalhawk's voice is achingly soft, warm, as if the solvent running between his seams has gotten into his processor. If Starscream opens his eyes he knows he won't be there. But like this, he can feel his presence as if it were real. Primus, he's so tired.

"I don't want to do this right now," Starscream says. "Or ever."

"What, be a leader? Or talk to me?"

"Both," he says, "No--I mean. Neither. Just. Leave me alone."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Starscream says, sinking to the floor, "I really, really would."

"If only things were that easy. But you and I both know that they never are. Well, technically, you're the one who knows. I'm--well. You know."

"I know."

"You can lead. You just have to try."

Starscream’s patience is on a hair trigger. "You think I'm not trying?" he shrieks suddenly into empty air. "You have no idea what I've been through. You have no idea how hard it is. No one does! To have every single person against you. Getting sabotaged, set up to fail, and mocked at every turn. To be the laughingstock of an entire galaxy. To have absolutely no one who believes in you even a little, and to have absolutely everyone waiting for you to fall."

A beat of silence.

"I believed in you."

When Starscream opens his eyes the room is dark and empty. He hears no more sound but the steady tapping of solvent on his wings. In the deep quiet, in the dead of the night, he picks himself up like he would an inanimate object, separate from himself. He picks himself up indelicately in his own hands and carries himself to his recharge slab where his limbs give out and he collapses, utterly still. He lies like that, standing beside himself in his own bed, in and out of consciousness until morning comes.

\--

“Not coming with me today? And you were so close to learning how to hold a shovel.” Megatron leans casually against the doorframe of Starscream’s office, swirling a cube of his poisoned energon as if it were a glass of fine high-grade.

“Yesterday was for ceremonial purposes only,” Starscream says. “A few guards will accompany you when you go out today. I have more important matters to attend to than chaperoning you.” He sounds tired, Megatron observes. He can’t get a good look at the seeker’s face, perhaps intentionally--Starscream seems to lean further into the datapad he’s reading as Megatron slowly approaches. “Do you need something?” he asks, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“You don’t look so good,” Megatron quips.

“Oh, look at you,” Starscream says, voice laced with venom, “Suddenly so concerned for my welfare.” Megatron reaches towards him and Starscream’s vocalizer hitches involuntarily. Worse--he cringes. Curls instinctively into a ball, shields his most vital parts and braces for an impact that never comes. Megatron’s hand is light and gentle on the side of his helm and Starscream can’t react fast enough. Megatron sees his face, sees the flash of terror and need and wild, unrestrained hurt the instant before Starscream musters his face into a noncommittal grimace.

Megatron can’t help himself. It’s so easy to fall back into old routines. Comfortable. Familiar. It’s effortlessly simple to lean down and watch as Starscream’s frame capitulates in spite of itself, bends to accommodate his presence. The poisoned energon doesn’t matter. In the contained universe suspended in this room he’s the most powerful mech alive. This is the secret he’s always known, the truth of leadership, the difference between Starscream and him. Power isn’t a title. It isn’t strength, speed, or even intelligence. It’s this. It’s what makes Starscream’s wings dip in deference, heedless of his position. It’s what’s been silently festering in the wound cut between them since they last met, since the last time Megatron really got his hands into Starscream’s seams and pulled. It’s--

A sharp pain erupts suddenly in Megatron’s left arm and he stumbles back, winded. “I can’t even begin to imagine what smug little monologue you were cooking up in your head just now,” Starscream says, disgusted. He shot him. Starscream shot him. “Oh, don’t get all huffy about it,” he says, as if in response, “I barely singed you.”

“I have never gotten huffy in my life,” Megatron says acidly, narrowing his optics. Indeed, Megatron can already tell that the damage is superficial, the pain instantly receding. Much worse is the irritation that stirs in his head and in his hands, at himself a little for getting so lost in fantasy, but mostly at Starscream. Always at Starscream.

“Whatever helps you recharge at night,” Starscream hums. “Don’t try something like that again. I’m the boss now, remember? You can’t intimidate me.”

 _No_ , Megatron thinks. He saw the seeker’s wings, his optics, unmistakable. He knows Starscream’s language better than anyone--he’s the _only_ one who can so truly and entirely tear down his second’s barriers, his carefully constructed ego and smug facade. Only Megatron can see him like this, exposed and utterly vulnerable. And he saw it then, just for an instant, in those tired, terrified optics. Still his second. Always.

But he backs down. Best to exercise a bit of patience. He has all the time he needs to take the little seeker apart piece by piece. “I don’t need to intimidate you, Starscream,” he says with an ambiguous look. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Whatever,” Starscream snaps, the exhausted pallor quickly overtaking his expression again. “You need to get to work. Don’t make me drag you.”

Megatron frowns. Not nearly enough venom, not enough fire. They have a lot to work on. For now though, he simply turns and leaves the room, confident in his position. He spends the rest of the day thinking fondly about how it felt to touch Starscream again, to feel him shrink. The phantom sensation tingles on his palms and the tips of his fingers and he finds himself inadvertently clenching his fists until they ache. It’s a pleasant ache. Starscream is a pleasant ache that he can’t quite get out from under his plating. Megatron’s missed it.


End file.
